Unzipped by Lois Greiman Page A

living room like flan gone bad.
    “He liked girls. Young ones. Not like me,” he said, and grinned. I think a good description might be lascivious. Or maybe just creepy. “I like ’em aged. Like fine wine.
You’re
lookin’ good, babe,” he said, reaching out.
    I slapped his hand away, feeling winded. “Let’s just stick to the facts.”
    His grin widened. “Fact is you asked for a favor. And the god come through for you.”
    “What do you want?” I asked, and slapped his hand again. It had started to rise like the living dead.
    “Hey,” he said, sounding offended. “I just wanted to buy you a little dinner, impart a bit of information.”
    I scowled. We have a maxim where I come from: Never trust a man who wears his pubic hair on his head. “Just dinner? That’s all?”
    He shrugged. “I’ll understand if you can’t keep your hands off me.”
    I gave him the evil eye, but maybe he’s one of those guys who thrives on a good stiff challenge, because he didn’t back down. “All right,” I said, exhausted despite the lying clock. “Give me fifteen minutes, but I warn you . . .” I turned back, drawing out the silence for dramatic effect, “you try anything funny and I’ll be wiping up my floor with your head.”
     
    H e drove a Porsche. An ’04 turbo Cabriolet to be exact, and since all three of my primordial brothers had spent their adolescence drooling over cars, I knew a little about them. This one, for instance, was expensive. Wouldn’t you just know it? The Geekster was rich.
    “Dig the wheels?” he asked, grinning at me.
    A chimpanzee would dig the wheels, but a chimp might also expect a little more subtlety from her dinner companion. For a man who had vowed to keep his hands to himself he was giving off vibes like Julio on a hot night.
    “I don’t mean to be rude,” I began, and it was generally true, but it was harder at some times than others. “And I do appreciate your help, J.D.—”
    “You can call me Geekster. I don’t mind,” he said, shrugging pragmatically. “Some guys, they got the looks and some guys, they got the charisma. Me, I got me a nice little job at NeoTech.” He grinned as he shifted into fourth. The gears snarled like pit bulls. “And a Porsche.” He stroked the steering wheel.
    I shivered. “Listen—”
    “A big-ass house in La Canada.”
    “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
    “A swimming pool.”
    “I mean, you’re a perfectly nice guy . . . I suppose—”
    “Couple mil in the bank.”
    “But you’re just not—” I stopped, blinked. “How much?”
    He grinned toothily. “Two million, four hundred thirty-three thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two. Not that I’m counting.”
    “Two million, four . . .” My voice drifted away, but I cleared my throat and managed to move on. “Listen, Solberg, you understand that this is just business, right?”
    “I make five hundred an hour, babalita.”
    I felt the blood drain from my face. I couldn’t even imagine what I would have to do to earn that kind of money, but I was pretty sure it would be illegal and probably physically impossible. “You do know that this is just a personal favor, right?” I asked, feeling weak.
    He brayed a laugh. “That’s what I always liked about you, babe. Great sense of humor.”
    Right. And the fact that the Warthog’s uniforms displayed more cleavage than a porn flick.
    Just now I was showing no cleavage at all. I had gone for a staid image with black slacks and a black, button-up blouse. Only the slacks had been at the dry cleaners. So I’d had to settle for a skirt instead. It was by no means a mini, but geek boy kept staring at my knees. I tugged at the unobliging fabric.
    “Where are we going?” I asked. We were heading west at breakneck speed on the San Bernadino Freeway. Sunday night traffic was light and congenial. We’d only been flipped off twice since exiting Towne Avenue.
    “Hope you like lobster,” he said.
    I don’t think I’m